Argentina
by Assemble-the-Avengers
Summary: Agents Barton and Romanoff are sent on a near impossible mission to protect a good natured, widowed philanthropist and his daughter when SHIELD receives intel that the small family will be targeted. The partners will be tested and taken to their limit, forced to move forward with their relationship or break it apart - furthermore breaking themselves.
1. Chapter 1

**Here we are. Once again. **

**This time with Argentina. **

**Sorry it took forever. **

**Starting off with a dark chapter for once. **

**Review, follow and favorite. **

Draw. Aim. Release.

Draw. Aim. Release.

Draw. Aim. Release.

The words came as a steady drone in the background of Clint Barton's thoughts despite his attempt at distracting himself.

Draw. Aim. _You failed. _Release.

The unwelcome reminder cut into his mantra and he growled, hurling his bow at the wall to his right. He'd thrown it with enough force to shatter the weapon. Clint didn't even pause long enough to feel even the slightest bit remorseful for destroying the third bow SHIELD tech had manufactured for him this week. He spun on his heel, bracing his arms against the wall as he tried to catch his breath. His body rocked against the wall, keeping time with his shaky breathing. Red flooded his vision and he pushed away from the wall, threading his fingers through his hair as he stalked towards the still moving targets. His arrows protruded from dead center, setting him off for reasons that the man's observing friend would never know.

Phil watched cringing as Clint lashed out at each and every target, kicking them with the full force of his body weight behind the strikes. The targets splintered off their stands without so much as a second of resistance.

The younger man stumbled back against the wall, sinking to the cement floor of the shooting range and tilting his head back. His eyes eased open and his head rolled forward, Phil's cue to show himself. Clint followed the handler with wary eyes only looking away when Coulson crouched in front of him.

"How's she?" Clint muttered, staring over Phil's shoulder at the grey walls that surrounded them. Coulson rocked back on his heels, sliding up beside his agent.

"I've had to call off three security squads, Clint. She's tearing the training room to pieces." The older friend answered, allowing Hawkeye his evasion tactic. Clint nodded and Phil let them fall into silence; the briefing could wait.

"Those kids…" he finally started, quietly enough that Phil had to resist the urge to lean closer. "They were my responsibility." Clint continued detachedly. "They're dead, Phil. Every last one of them." He growled angrily, slamming his head back against the wall with an echoing crack.

"You and Romanoff couldn't have known Fujiku would get involved. You two didn't stand a chance against his guards, especially while trying to protect thirteen kids, Barton. Those odds weren't _possible." _ Coulson argued. Clint just shook his head.

"Doesn't matter. Romanoff and I are alive. They aren't." his voice was packed with more self-deprecation than should've been possible for a twenty-three year old. It was clear in his tone that he believed he should've and would've died in place of those children and that somehow he failed by living.

"Barton." Phil snapped, pushing his back against the wall to propel himself into his spot in front of Clint. The younger man's glazed eyes stared straight at his friend. "Clint. I _know _it hurts losing those kids. I was there, remember?" he prompted, pulling Clint's head forward with a firm grip around the back of his neck. "But you cannot tear yourself up about this. It was not your fault." Phil repeated, fighting with every word to keep the desperate pleading out of his tone. Barton would undoubtedly pick up on it and additional guilt would only make the situation that much worse. "Do you understand?" he demanded gently. Clint stared blankly. "Clint." He prodded.

"Yeah, Phil." He muttered hoarsely. Phil nodded, blowing out a shaky breath. He stood with his hand locked around Clint's forearm, hauling him to his feet in the same movement.

"Training room 4-36." Phil told him knowingly as he punched his access code into the pad beside the door, causing it to slide open. "Brief in Con-13 when you're done with her." Phil called over his shoulder as the elevator doors slid shut, two halves of the SHIELD emblem meeting to form a whole.

Clint stood, listening to the faint humming of the elevator as it dropped through the base, until he heard it screech to a stop in the shaft. He threaded his fingers together behind his head, stalking off down the hallway in the direction of 4-36. He ignored the retinal scanner, knowing Natasha had most likely shot the access pad during her breakdown. He threw his body weight against the door and it opened with a groan. He froze in the doorway, wondering if it had been this terrifying for Phil.

The training room lie in absolute ruins. Sand bled from slits in punching bags that littered the ground. Water leaked from bullet holes in the bases of destroyed practice dummies. Plaster crumbled from holes in the walls. His partner's anguished grunts echoed in the room as she wildly beat the last intact punching bag. He listened to the unfamiliar sound of Natasha's fists thudding unevenly against the leather. It was unnervingly different from her usual rhythmic pattern. Her already haphazard punches stuttered and she stumbled uncharacteristically, pulling her arm against her body with a repressed wince.

Clint counted to twenty before she moved again. For twenty seconds the Russian firecracker didn't move a muscle. Until something set her off, much like the arrows had pushed Clint over the edge. She reached up and closed her hand over the edge of the punching bag, using the leverage to pull her knee into the base. He had every intention of letting her go at it. Then she started throwing her indisputably injured hand at the wall behind her, biting down on her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

Her partner hissed a curse in Hungarian, rushing at her before she could shatter her hand. He barreled into her, knocking her to the ground and pinning the Black Widow under his body weight. She didn't thrash, or fight back, or try to push him off; only stared up at him with forced calm.

"A bit presumptuous, aren't we Barton?" she said dryly. Ignoring her, his hand shot out to catch her hand, ignoring the wince the action brought on from Natasha. He cradled her bloodied, black and blue hand in front of him, inspecting it with eyes that had seen a considerable total of injuries.

"Is it broken?" he asked bluntly. Her head twitched to the side once, _'No'_. His posture relaxed with the reassurance as he rolled off of her, helping her into a sitting position.

"That should've been us." She hissed venomously. "Мы заслуживаем того, чтобы умереть. Они этого не сделали." Clint winced.

'_We deserved to die. They didn't."_

"I _know _that, Tasha." He sighed, closing his hand over her knee.

"Call me Tasha again and I will throw you head first out your bedroom window while you're asleep." She warned seriously, jerking her leg out of his reach.

"Then it's a good thing birds can fly, isn't it Nat?" he winked, jumping to his feet and bolting out the door before she could reach her gun. "Briefing in Con-13. Now." He reminded, poking his head around the corner.

The archer smirked as bullets harmlessly tore through the wall where his head had been seconds before.

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	2. Chapter 2

"Listening." Clint hummed, leaning forward on his muscled forearms.

"Andres Bartolome." Phil started again, sliding a file across the always greased conference table.

"How'd he make his millions?" Natasha asked after she'd read his profile.

"Oil nanobots. He released them into the ground and within days they'd hit the jackpot. They paid him big for the blueprints but the bots malfunctioned within weeks. The government was on Bartolome for weeks until he fixed it. Except this time he wouldn't give up the blueprints." Clint read off. Phil nodded along with him. "That's where we come in?" Barton assumed. Coulson nodded again.

"His buyers took him to court, demanding the new blue prints and they lost. Ticked off some powerful people. He's got guards, of course, but one of our doubles notified us that Diego Efraim's going after him in a couple of days. Bartolome's got a daughter." He sighed, tone sobering dramatically. "Adalia Bartolome, she's seven."

"Wife?" Natasha asked, eyes remaining trained on the paperwork. Coulson shook his head – a sharp, empathetic motion.

"Coulson…" Clint growled warningly, studying the shifty, secretive expression on his friend's face.

"Efraim's a human trafficker." He sighed, lowering his eyes. Clint slammed his fists on the table, angrily stumbling out of his chair, threading his fingers through his hair in frustration as he paced to the wall. Natasha watched him warily, assuming correctly that he was thinking something along the lines of what she was.

Their last mission had dealt with a human trafficker – a sick man who marketed young girls. And they had failed. Thirteen little girls died on their watch. _Thirteen innocent children. _

"Efraim wants Adalia for leverage." Natasha surmised guardedly, not missing the way Clint's body tensed from where he stood in the corner of the room.

"We assume." Phil confirmed solemnly. "Barton, you'll ID as Bartolome's new personal bodyguard, and Romanoff, you'll pose as the girl's." They nodded acceptingly at their assignments, standing once they'd taken their files that they knew to contain their fake IDs, driver's licenses, passports and plane tickets. "Wheels up in two hours." They disappeared through the sliding door before Phil had a chance to dismiss them.

Natasha slipped ahead of her partner, her heels clicking irritatingly on the linoleum floor as she walked towards her bedroom. She heard the door to Clint's neighboring bedroom door slam shut, echoed by crashes and thuds as he demolished his bare SHIELD apartment in resentment. Natasha sighed, dropping down on her bed with an internal sigh as she began to study her file again.

Clint grunted as his fist shattered the third lamp he'd been granted this year, and he shook out his hand, effectively ridding it of the glass shards. He fell down on the bed, the springs groaning beneath the mattress. He rolled over on his side, staring down at the open file at his side. His thoughts kept wandering, unwillingly, to the Russian redhead in the adjoining room, only to be forcibly pushed away with warning bells ringing in his head.

_"Clint…" Phil warned. Barton rolled his eyes, turning away from his handler. "Barton look at me." He ordered angrily, spinning Clint around to face him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "This –" he snapped, gesturing at the closed bathroom door behind them through which Natasha had disappeared. "-cannot happen." _

_"Phil," Clint growled under his breath, shaking his head fiercely. Phil ignored his agent's warning tone and continued mercilessly. _

_"If __**this **__happens, Barton, your SHIELD affiliation will be __**terminated." **_

_"I know that Coulson." He hissed. _

_"And so will hers." Phil added._

_"I know." _

_"If you're terminated, you will be put in federal prison." _

_"I __**know**__." Phil leaned forward, slamming his palm into the wall behind Clint._

_"You don't Barton, __**you don't!**__" he shouted. "She'll be put back on the hit list, Clint. __**She. Will. Be. Assassinated. **__And not by you – by someone who doesn't see what you see." _

_Clint froze. _

_"And I can't protect you after that, either of you. And you can't protect her. It __**cannot happen.**__" _

Their argument ran through his head over and over like a broken record, gutting him every time he remembered that she would be assassinated.

"Times up, Barton." His partner's voice called through the door. Clint shot up in his bed, rubbing his eyes in confusion, wondering when he had fallen asleep. He scrambled off the bed, reaching for the door handle to let Natasha in. She stood there in all her glory, hair pulled up in a high-pony tail, unzipped SHIELD jacket showing her never ending curves. He groaned internally, forcing himself to look away. "What've you been doing for two hours?" she grumbled, pushing her way into his bedroom. He ran his hand through his undoubtedly messy hair. She raised her eyebrows and tapped her foot impatiently.

"Building a boat." He rolled his eyes, exhaling sarcastically.

"Cute." She chirped sardonically.

"If only you meant that, Romanoff." He smiled sweetly, winking flirtatiously. He didn't so much as pause when he heard the telltale click of her gun. She hadn't shot him thus far, and in that case probably wouldn't at any point in the near future. "Put the gun away, Tasha." He chastised exhaustedly. She leveled it with his head in response.

"If you don't stop calling me _Tasha _I will shoot you in the head. Twice. Without regret." She smiled innocently, cocking her head to the side. Clint mirrored her, then shot forward, parrying the weapon and twisting her wrist above her head, pinning her to the wall with his hips.

"If you were going to, you would've a long time ago." He rasped in her ear, tentatively touching his lips to her neck. She froze momentarily before she recovered. Clint chuckled when he felt the knife at his abdomen, backing away after one defying moment.

"You're treading dangerous waters, Barton." She warned.

"And you aren't?" he asked rhetorically as he shouldered his duffle bag, waving her out ahead of him.

**SORRY, SIX REVIEWS DIDNT LEAVE ME WITH MUCH MOTIVATION. **

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	3. Chapter 3

**SO SORRY IT TOOK FOREVER TO UPDATE THIS STORY. BUT SCHOOL'S OUT AND MY UPDATES SHOULD BE MORE REGULAR. ASIDE FROM THE FACT THAT I'M IN FLORIDA STAYING AT MY 87 YEAR OLD FAMILY FRIEND'S HOUSE WHO DOESNT HAVE WIFI WHICH MEANS I WILL BE GOING TO STARBUCKS. A LOT. JUST FOR YOU. IF YOU REVIEW. **

Phil reached over his seat to where Clint slept in the back seat of the jeep, tapping him lightly then withdrawing his arm before the assassin could lash out.

"Hm? Yeah. I'm up." He muttered groggily.

"We're here, Barton." Natasha told him without looking up from her SHIELD issued phone. Clint looked up blearily, peering up at the mansion from under the hood of his jacket. Phil glared at him in the rearview mirror until the younger agent removed the jacket, showcasing his suit, tailored to fit him perfectly. He rolled his eyes as he fit the comm. unit in his ear, childishly sticking his tongue out at Phil once he had pulled his pre-tied tie over his head.

"I hate suits." He grumbled.

"We know kid." Phil sighed, flashing his ID at the gate guard. Natasha slid her phone into the almost non-existent pocket in her black pencil skirt, smoothing out her neatly tucked in blouse. Clint stared at her reflection in the windshield while she unbuttoned the top button, pulling her flat ironed hair into a pony tail for the second time that day and fitting the earpiece in place.

"I can feel your stare burning holes through my shirt, Barton." She deadpanned.

"Being Superman would have its advantages." He noted wryly in response.

"Point blank. I will shoot you point blank." She reminded. Clint narrowed his eyes and leaned forward in his seat.

"I dare you to try." He hissed in her ear.

"Don't tempt me." She warned.

"It was an invitation, not a temptation." He breathed back.

"Do you want to die?" she asked darkly.

"You don't want the answer to that, Tasha." He answered quietly. She let the subject drop and followed him out of the jeep, leaving Coulson swallowing thickly and questioning his agents' inclination for self-preservation.

Clint lifted their weapons bags out of the back of the truck, handing Natasha her duffle bag and motioning for her to go to the door first. She had always made better first impressions, until she opened her mouth. Her looks lulled people into a sense of security and Clint did the talking; there was less threatening when he spoke for the both of them. She knocked lightly and stepped back while multiple pairs of feet shuffled around behind the door. Four guards stood in front of the agents once the door swung open.

"Name and business." The man with the biggest gun snapped.

"Ciara Roison." Natasha greeted, smiling prettily.

"Chris Collin. I'm the boss's new guard." Clint shifted his duffle bag to his left hand and leaned forward to shake the bodyguard's hand. The man ignored him and continued looking the pretty red-head in front of him up and down. Barton tensed, hand clenching tighter around the handle of his bag. He didn't tend to get jealous on missions, flirting was her _job _and he knew that. But something about the _way _the man was looking at him gave him a bad feeling.

"Leave them be, Marlo." Another voice instructed calmly. The big gun, Marlo, stepped aside immediately, waving in the two agents and starting to close the door just as Coulson pushed inside.

"Aaron Silas. With them." Phil introduced himself, playing the part of the physically challenged assistant. Marlo rolled his eyes and waved the man in, propping his gun up against his shoulder.

"Andres Bartolome, so nice to meet you." A fit man, mid-fifties maybe, sporting gray hair and glasses that he had already pushed up twice, smiled warmly, extending his hand to all three agents.

"Ciara Roison." Natasha smiled back, shaking his hand firmly as she introduced herself for the second time in two minutes.

"My daughter cannot wait to meet you. It's been too long since she's had another girl to talk to in this house." Andres responded in accented English.

"No puedo esperar para conocerla." Natasha effortlessly slipped into Spanish, dipping her head in acted shyness at Bartolome's impressed look.

'_I can't wait to meet her.'_

"Chris Collin." Clint said when Andres looked to him next. "I look forward to working with you." Clint had adopted the all work-no play part easily.

"And I, you, agent." the older man replied seriously. "I'll go grab my daughter." He smiled, backing away before walking towards one of three staircases Clint had already noticed. Natasha met Clint's eyes and raised one eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards. '_He's pretty positive for a man who has lost everything.' _Clint's eyes widened fractionally. '_Very positive.' _But they both knew it was easier to work with someone like him than one lost in the clutches of depression.

"Agent Roison, this is my daughter Adalia." Bartolome said as he rounded the corner, a little girl holding onto his hand. "Adalia, this is Miss Roison. Do you remember what I told you about why she's here?"

"Si." She nodded. "Hola, Miss Roison." She smiled crookedly up at the red head.

"Hello, Adalia. You can call me Ciara, if you'd like." Natasha offered as she discreetly memorized every detail of the child; her wavy brunette hair, tanned skin and brown eyes. The small lisp she talked with when she spoke English. The fact that she was wearing a princess dress. Her overall innocent appearance.

"Ok. Thiara." She giggled. Natasha smiled and straightened to her full height, met with the blindingly bright smile of the girl's dad. "Puedo mostrarle mi habitacion?" she asked hopefully.

'_Can I show you my room?' _

"I think that's a wonderful idea, Addie." Her dad cut in before Ciara could deny for fear of upsetting her boss of two minutes. "Adalia can give you a preliminary tour and if you have questions, I'd be happy to answer." Andres encouraged.

"Alright then, let me know if you need anything, sir. But I'm sure Agent Collin's got you well taken care of." Natasha smiled, letting the little girl take her hand and lead her up the staircase and down the hallway, leaving Clint with Bartolome.

"Sir." Clint nodded politely.

"Bartolome." The older man corrected.

"Sorry sir." Clint apologized, only to purse his lips and rolled his eyes when he made the same mistake. Bartolome laughed and clapped his bodyguard on the back.

"You'll get the hang of it, kid." He laughed. Clint suddenly looked around only to find Phil nowhere to be seen.

"Did you happen to see where the other man that was with me went?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Marlo escorted him to the room you will be staying in. Is Agent Roison going to be alright sharing a room with you? She could sleep in Addie's room if it's going to be a problem." Andres offered as they walked through the mansion.

"I'm sure she'll be fine.

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	4. Chapter 4

Natasha was still sitting on the girls bedroom floor, surrounded by pink. Pink walls, pink butterflies, pink bed, pink drapes, pink carpet, pink door handle, pink closet door. It was almost overwhelming, save for the innocent girl who honestly couldn't be any more excited to have someone to play Barbie's with. So Natasha put up and shut up, acting out the part of a princess Barbie like the girl had politely asked of her.

After an hour of dressing, undressing, and redressing two blonde dolls over and over, and imitating the high pitched voice of the stuck up snobs Natasha had been forced to pose as many times over her lifetime, Adalia finally put her doll down and looked up at her red head body guard with an expression that was much too mischievous for Natasha's liking.

"Are you an Mister Cwis in wuv, Miss Thiara?" she asked, smiling innocently and batting her long eyelashes. Natasha laughed. Actually laughed. Out loud.

"No honey. He's just my friend." The older girl answered.

"Nope. He likes you." She sang happily.

"Oh? And how would you know, Adalia?" Natasha laughed, picking up all of the princess dresses and tossing them in the basket at the foot of the girl's bed.

"Because Daddy looks at mama's picture the thame way Mister Cwis looks at you." The little girl's voice quieted substantially. Natasha's eyes softened.

"Between you and me kid, I think he likes me too." Natasha smirked.

"Do you like him?" the seven year old asked, cocking her head to the side.

"I don't really know. Sometimes, I guess." Natasha laughed. Adalia giggled, and opened her mouth to reply when a knock on the door drew both girls' attention. The older of the two quickly got to her feet, smoothing out her skirt and folding her hands behind her back as she noticed her boss standing in the doorway. Bartolome rolled his eyes and chuckled.

"At ease soldier." He ordered calmly. Natasha relaxed her rigid posture and let her hands fall to the side, allowing the forced blush creep over her cheeks.

"Yes sir." She nodded sharply.

"Como le dije a tu amigo, Miss Roison. No hay ninguna necesidad de formalidades." The widowed man chastised. Natasha nodded again as her lips twitched upwards in the beginnings of a suppressed smile.

'_Like I told your friend, Miss Roison. There is no need for the formalities.' _

"Well, Miss Roison, I see you and my daughter are getting along very well." He added with a warm smile as he looked around his daughter's mess of a bedroom. Adalia nodded furiously.

"She's so nice, papa." She grinned in her lisp, her brunette bangs flopping down in front of her eyes as she jumped up and down.

"Glad to hear it." The smile on his face widened further. "We must be at the dock by ocho de la manana." He addressed his daughter, unknowingly slipping into Spanish. "Probablemente sea major para meterte en la cama, Addie." He gave the sentence the air of suggestion but the girl's bodyguard caught the undertone of an order. Coulson often used the same trick on Barton when he was being difficult.

'_It'd probably be best to get you in bed, Addie.' _

"_Dock?" _Natasha clarified, suddenly realizing what Andres had said. Clint frowned from his place behind his boss when he caught the expertly disguised tone of fear and irritation.

"Oh yes. We had planned to take the boat out tomorrow. Is that going to be a problem, Miss Roison?" he asked, concerned.

"No, no of course not." She recovered, smiling excitedly.

"Must I go to bed papa?" Adalia interjected, batting her eyelashes up at her dad, pouting as he nodded. "Fine." She huffed. "Can Ciara tuck me in, at least?" she cocked her head to the side, shifting her pleading gaze to the only other woman in the room.

"I do what your dad tells me. If its ok with him, I'd love to, honey." Ciara smiled. Adalia's smile brightened and she slipped her hand into the Russian's.

"I don't see why not as long as she has no problem with it. See you girls bright and early. Buenas noches." He responded, crouching down to kiss Adalia's forehead and make it easier for her to kiss his cheek.

"Buenas noches, papa." She echoed, waving at him as he disappeared out the door with Barton trailing behind. Once the door shut, Adalia knelt down in the center of the mess, still holding tight to 'Ciara's' hand, forcing her to get on the ground beside her. They cleaned up the doll's together for a grand total of five minutes before Adalia's hand went slack in Natasha's and her eyes began to flutter as she yawned. Natasha chuckled softly and pushed off the floor, leading Adalia over to her bed so she could sit down.

"Where are your pajamas, honey?" Natasha asked slowly.

"Hm?" she asked, rubbing her eyes with her fists. Natasha shook her head and walked over to the dresser opening each drawer until she found a princess nightgown and pulled it out, slinging it over her shoulder. She crouched down in front of Addie again and pulled her shirt off, helping her out of her shorts, replacing both with the nightgown then carefully shifting her under the covers. "Buenas noches, Mama." She muttered out of reflex. Natasha stiffened considerably and stood, hurrying to the door.

"Good night Miss Adalia." She replied before crossing her arms over her chest and slipping out of her heels, walking down the stairs to the room Adalia had pointed out as hers, shutting the door softly behind her and walking forward to the bed, bracing her palms against the mattress and working to inhale a steady breath.

"Tasha." A familiar voice coming from her right had her shooting upright and pointing her gun at her partner's head.

"What are you doing in my room?" she snapped, ignoring the fact that he was standing there in nothing but athletic shorts, his hair still dripping wet.

"Our room." He corrected, rubbing a towel through his hair then tossing it onto the foot of the bed… the _only _bed.

"Where's Coulson?" she asked evasively, keeping her weapon held to his forehead.

"Already asleep in the next room." He replied, crossing his arms nonchalantly.

"You can sleep with him, идиот." She hissed through her teeth.

"He's sleeping on a couch." He rolled his eyes. "He snores anyway. And you're much prettier." He flashed her a cocky boyish grin. She scowled and shoved past him into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her, only to have it swing open again to reveal Clint's foot in the way. Pointedly ignoring him, she pulled the rubber band out of her hair and let it fall in even waves down her back. "What was that about, Tasha?" he asked seriously.

"None of your concern, Barton." She growled, pulling off her button down shirt and smirking slightly as his pupils dilated helplessly but remained trained on her face. She rolled her eyes; _gentlemen. _

"Stop messing with me, Romanoff." He said lowly, shoving one of his shirts into her hands, refusing to let his eyes wander. She sighed and pulled the shirt on, sliding out of the skirt and draping it over her shirt on the edge of the sink. She could see Clint working to beat back the image of his sexy partner standing in front of him in nothing but a black bra and pencil skirt.

As she tried to use his momentary distraction to brush past him, he stuck his arm out, pushing his palm against the frame, blocking her way out.

"What's wrong Romanoff?" he asked warily. She glared icily and crossed her arms.

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with me, Barton. Move your arm before I snap it in half." she warned directly. He shook his head, water droplets spraying onto the walls.

"Not until you talk to me." He replied evenly. Her green eyes blazed in fury while Clint, to his credit, didn't so much as flinch when a dagger buried itself in the wall centimeters from his head with a thud.

"Move." she repeated. Clint stayed silent. The anger in her eyes surged liked a stoked fire and Clint tensed.

"I'm not moving, Natalia." The bold American froze when he realized what he had said. Natasha pursed her lips and Clint cried out from sheer shock when he felt hot lead scrape his bicep. He _heard _the shot second. "Are you _insane _woman!" he yelled, clutching his arm and therefore reopening the doorway for her.

"If you're just now realizing that Barton, you are more of an idiot than I thought." Her unaffected tone sent Barton over the edge with his own temper.

"You _shot _me!" he yelled accusingly, watching her walk out of the bathroom, hips swaying.

"I barely grazed you, you American _baby." _She rolled her eyes and leant over her weapons bag, starting to lay each gun and knife out in a perfect line. He groaned and spun on his heel, stalking out of the bathroom, letting go of his arm to grip her shoulder and push her away from the lineup of weapons. She stiffened and stood again.

"Russian beast." He growled in retaliation, staring down at her unwaveringly.

"American scum." She countered.

"Red Room Princess." He hissed in her ear mercilessly. He almost regretted it when pain flashed in her emerald eyes but then he didn't. He needed to get her off her game even if that meant royally pissing her off. He felt her fist connect with his jaw and grimaced as his head snapped to the side, stiffening in suspicion when her gentle hand caressed the curve of his shoulder and she stood on her tip toes and tilted her head until her lips were moving against his ear.

"Wannabe soldier." She murmured inaudibly. Clint ignored the somewhat low blow, suppressed a shudder and grabbed her wrist, twisting it up and over her head until it was locked behind her back and his arm, as a result, was wrapped around her waist.

"Russian experiment." He spat back, forcing contempt as he dragged her flush against his body. She growled lowly and jerked her knee up, spinning out of his unrelenting grip on her wrist once he was doubled over. Once Clint had caught his breath, he straightened, gasping slightly and cursing under his breath when he realized she was gone.

"I know what you're doing Barton." She breathed silently from behind him before dropping down and sweeping his legs out from under him. Clint twisted in midair, landing on his hands and grunting in pain when his still bleeding arm flared. He kicked upwards into a handstand, bending his arms and somersaulting to his feet.

"All you need to do is talk to me, Romanoff." He said gruffly.

"Мне не нужно ничего делать!" she hissed angrily in reply. He rolled his eyes. He knew she was speaking too low and too quick for him to keep up on _purpose. _

"You're being a child, Romanoff." He sighed breathlessly, aiming a blow at her stomach.

"I'm not the one who can't keep my emotions in _check _Barton!" she brought one foot behind her and lunged forward jumping up and diving towards the floor, pushing off and wrapping her legs around his neck in a loose thigh choke, bringing them both to the ground.

"But at least I'm not afraid of mine." He whispered sadly, rolling her underneath him and pinning her to the wood floor with his weight. He was forced to lean back at a nearly ninety degree angle as the butt of her gun passed dangerously close to his face. She kicked her leg out from under his body and tucked her knee up to her chest, drilling him in the sternum with her foot, sending him crashing to the ground gasping for breath. Before he had a chance to catch it, Natasha's knee came down on his throat and she braced her hands on either side of Clint's head.

"_Never _call me Natalia. _Ever _again. Slip up and I will slit your throat with a paper clip then hang you from the ceiling with Ella." She hissed dangerously. His eyes went wide with comical terror.

"Leave her out of this." He huffed.

"That's the part you worry about?" she rolled her eyes. "It's just a weapon, Barton." She pushed off of him, purposely pushing her hands against his chest as she stood.

"Ella is _not _just a weapon. Ella is my baby." He cooed as he coughed for air.

"Bathroom." She ordered, sticking a hand out to help him up. Taking her hand, the archer allowed her to haul him up. "When's the last time you even fired her, Barton?" she asked rhetorically as she followed him into the bathroom. Natasha paused.

_She did __**not **__just acknowledge that Barton's bow was a __**she. **_

Clint grinned. Her slip up didn't go unnoticed by him. _Victory. _But then his smile faded as he contemplated her question. She reached around him and knocked the toilet cover down motioning for him to sit. Barton stayed quiet for a minute and sat down obediently, watching as Natasha looked under the sink for a first aid kit.

"Not since Yokohama. I don't trust myself with her right now." He sighed. Natasha bit back a sarcastic comment about him talking about his bow like it really was his baby and instead nodded quietly. She might not get it but Ella meant a lot to him. She was heartless but she knew when to shut up. She crouched in front of him, shuffling through the first aid kit. Keeping one eye on the sluggishly bleeding cut, she set the suture kit and rubbing alcohol on the floor beside her, yanking a towel off the rack.

The partners stayed quiet, both watching Natasha's steady hands clean the bullet wound she had inflicted with the red head tactfully ignoring the white knuckled fist at Clint's side. The corners of his eyes tightened as she threaded the needle.

"Adalia called me mom." She finally answered him as she brought the needle closer to his skin.

"Ah." Clint nodded understandingly as she slid the needle through his skin, wincing almost imperceptibly as she did so.

"It was an exhausted reflex but…" she sighed in frustration as she continued to stitch his arm back together.

"You're getting attached to her." he assumed.

"You try spending a day with that girl." She muttered defensively.

"What bout the boat?" he asked through gritted teeth as she tied off the last stitch. She stiffened and he sighed, knowing he just lost her.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Barton." She slapped a piece of gauze over the raw wound a little too forcefully, taping it down and grabbing her partner's hand. He raised his eyebrows at her in tired confusion. Before he had a chance to ask she upended a bottle of ibuprofen, shaking two pills into his hand before cleaning up her medical mess and dropping onto the bed, hardly caring that she was still in Barton's shirt.

By the time Clint appeared in the doorway, she was already passed out on top of the covers. He sighed and sat down in the desk chair, watching her back while she slept like she knew he would.

_Night Tasha. _

**_SORRY ITS TAKING SO LONG TO UPDATE THIS STORY. I'M HAVING MOTIVATION ISSUES WITH THIS STORY DUE TO THE LACK OF REVIEWS. _**

**_SO IF YOU'RE ENJOYING THIS, PLEASE REVIEW SO I KNOW TO CONTINUE. THANKS!_**


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